


Public Communications

by Isnt_it_pretty_to_think_so



Series: Miscommunications [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers Family, Avengers Tower, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Civil War Fix-It, Civil War Team Iron Man, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Peter Parker, Identity Reveal, It's not explicit but it was in the prequal to this fic, Mj the therapist, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Iron Man 3, Protective Avengers, Social Media, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Trigger Warning - School Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isnt_it_pretty_to_think_so/pseuds/Isnt_it_pretty_to_think_so
Summary: "There are rules to being a superhero," Natasha tells Peter.Most of the rules are common sense. Stay off the fan sites. Don't fall in love with civilians. Don't burn bridges just to toast marshmallows over the flames. And, most importantly, don't go to war with the media.It's a pity that common sense isn't one of Peter's virtues.OR: Peter goes to war with the media, because he's never been good at following rules.Sequel to Miscommunications
Relationships: Clint Barton & Peter Parker, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Miscommunications [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1313762
Comments: 217
Kudos: 1913
Collections: Avidreaders Avengers completed faves, Avidreaders Spiderman completed faves, Spider-Man Public Identity Reveal, god tier spider-man fics, spidey





	1. Superhero Rules

“I used to think blood was sexy,” MJ says. “Congratulations, Peter. You’ve ruined blood. I hope you’re happy.”

Peter’s not sure if MJ and Ned are actually in front of him, or if the high strength painkillers broke his brain. The medbay sways around him, as if he's on a boat instead of Mr. Stark's private hospital in upstate new york. His head feels like someone’s repeatedly stuck his brain in a blender, and his abdomen throbs in time with the pulsing of his heart. No matter how many times he gets shot, he’ll never get used to the gut-wrenching pain of Bruce coaxing out a bullet with a pair of tweezers.

The white sheets are coarse between his fingers. The florescent lights are blinding. Peter tugs at the oxygen tube sticking into his nose, and MJ reaches out a hand to stop him.

“Stop being anxious,” she tells him.

“And just like that,” says Ned, “MJ the therapist has cured anxiety.”

MJ scowls. She has a lovely scowl. Her forehead scrunches up, and her eyes seem to get darker. Back-lit by the florescent lights, she looks like an angel. A 5’11, wingless, brooding angel with slouched posture and fiery eyes. 

“I’m not _trying_ to cure his anxiety,” she says. “I want him to stop messing around with his medical equipment. He’s already ruined blood for me. I don’t want him to ruin nasal prongs.”

“Thanks, MJ," Ned says. "When I woke up this morning, I thought to myself, _you know what would make today extra special? Listening to MJ talk about her nasal prong fetish_." 

"Ha ha," MJ says. 

She sits on the edge of the medbed, and Peter finds he can’t quite look at her. He doesn’t want to deal with the worry in her eyes, the conflicting emotions that flash across her face. He wishes May had gone all mamma-bear and forbid him from having visitors, but she's been in meetings with Mr. Stark’s legal team since Peter got out of surgery. She had time for a quick visit, where she pressed a kiss to his forehead and they both tried—and failed—to keep from crying, and then she was tugged away by lawyers. Peter doesn’t know what’s going on, and he doesn’t want to see his own fear reflected on his friends’ faces.

Ned takes his hand, and Peter doesn’t have the strength to pull away. He lets Ned stroke his hair, and the sensation makes his eyes flutter closed. Having people take care of him is nice. The extra-strength pain medication makes his mind cloudy, but it also keeps the memories at bay. He doesn’t want to remember the gun, or the school, or the feeling of his mask being ripped away from his face. He doesn’t want to think about how his identity was just revealed to the entire world, so he focuses on what’s actually important.

“How did I ruin blood for you?” he asks MJ.

She stares at him, her eyes somber. “You’re bleeding through your bedsheets,” she says. “It’s very un-sexy.”

“Ah.” He looks down. Sure enough, a spot of crimson has appeared on the pearly white sheets. The bandages must have soaked through. “We should get Bruce.”

“Are you dying?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How certain are you you’re not dying?”

Peter looks at Ned, not entirely sure how to answer that question. “Pretty certain,” he says slowly, wondering if this is another one of MJ’s insane tests. Ned shrugs, looking every bit as confused as Peter feels. “I mean, I guess you never know—”

“If you’re not an inch away from death, then Dr. Banner can wait,” says MJ. “We have more important matters to deal with.”

Peter tries to take a deep breath, and pain explodes around his ribcage. His brain works frantically, trying to come up with a way to get out of the conversation. The last thing he wants to do right now is talk about the elephant in the room. Even if he has to spend the rest of high school studying from Stark Towers, or if May will have to stop working, or if he has to give up Spiderman - _God, he hopes that won’t happen_ \- he doesn’t want to worry about it now. Everything hurts too much. Thinking about the school shooting is like prodding his tongue against a broken tooth. 

He doesn’t have to worry. MJ doesn’t try to force him to talk about his feelings. That’s not her way, and he should have known that. Instead, she pulls out a set of flashcards, brandishing them at him like she’s holding the most valuable treasure in the world. 

“Just because you saved our school from a psycho killer—”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est,” chimes in Ned.

“—doesn’t mean you’re allowed to take time off.” MJ sets the deck of cards on the table beside his medbed. “They’re color coded. You should already know the blue ones, and the black ones shouldn't be hard to memorize.”

“What about the red ones?” asks Peter. He wonders if she intended to code the cards with Spiderman’s colors, or if that was unintentional. He chooses to believe she picked the colors out on purpose, in a strange but flattering show of support.

“I like to call the red ones, _topics that will make us lose nationals, unless Peter can get his shit together_ ,” says MJ. “Believe me, I’ll know if you aren’t studying enough.”

“How much should I be studying?” asks Peter.

“If you have to ask, then you aren’t studying enough.”

Ned’s forehead creases in concern. “Peter should focus on getting better,” he says pointedly. “He just got shot.”

“Really?” MJ asks. “Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed. I assumed he bloodied his bedsheets as a fashion statement.”

“I’m just saying—”

There’s a knock on the door of the medbay. MJ and Ned stop arguing and turn to face the door. Ned drops Peter’s hand, and Peter's half tempted to complain—Ned’s grip steadied him, kept him anchored in the floating hellscape of drug-induced fuzziness. Now, the only thing that grounds him is the soft hum of the medical machines and the lemony scent of the air freshener.

Nat enters the room. She’s cleaned Peter’s blood off of her face and plaited her hair back. A light scratch runs down her cheek. Peter has the sinking feeling that he’s the one who hurt her, back when he was bleeding out in a coat closet and trying to find something to cover his face with. He’ll never forget how steady her hands were as she led him from the school. He’s never thought of her as particularly strong—fast and clever, sure, but not strong like Steve or Bruce—but she got him out of the building with ease. She saved his life.

“Oh my God,” says Ned, his voice low and reverent. “You’re the Black Widow.”

Peter expects MJ to give him all kinds of shit for that, but she looks just as enthused. Her lips twist back into a small smile, which is the MJ equivalent of cackling with glee. 

“Hi,” says Nat, her expression blank. “Mind giving me a moment with Peter?”

For the first time in her entire life, MJ doesn’t seem to see the need to argue. “Sure,” she says, grabbing Ned’s arm and pulling it around her shoulder. “Let’s go see if Stark has anything we can set on fire.”

“She’s joking,” says Ned, the tips of his ears turning red.

“I never joke about messing with capitalists.”

Nat’s lips twitch, as though she’s tempted to smile, but her face remains impassive. She stays silent, folding her arms over her leather jacket. Ned and MJ get the message. Peter wants to thank them for stopping by. He wants to tell them how much they mean to him, but now doesn't seem like the right moment. Besides, there's no way they don't already know. MJ pats him on the foot on her way out. Ned shoots him a glassy-eyed smile and a wave. Then they’re gone, and the medbay door snaps shut behind them. 

Nat slides into the wooden chair beside his medbed. She doesn’t reach out to hold his hand, or offer him any niceties. Even so, Peter is glad it’s Nat who’s visiting his sickbed instead of another teammate. Rhodey would make a bunch of cracks about Peter’s youth, hiding his concern behind layers of condescension. Clint would stall for time, talking about the importance of proper bow maintenance or trying to sell Peter on the beauty of an MLM scheme. If things got too serious, he’d withdraw to the vents. Steve would… actually, Peter’s not sure what Steve would do, because Tony’s never let them have a one-on-one conversation.

Peter can count on Nat to tell him the truth, even if it’s unpleasant. He squints, trying to bring her face into focus. The room spins around him, and his breakfast of skittles and scrambled eggs— _eggs a la Peter,_ as May calles it—is threatening to make a reappearance.

“How bad is it?” Peter asks. 

She arches an eyebrow. “Bad.”

“Were their any casualties?”

She pauses. For a second, he thinks she’s going to tell him not to worry about it, or that they can talk about it when he’s feeling better. But Nat isn’t Tony or May, and she gives it to him straight.

“Yes,” she says. “But not from the shooter. A chemistry teacher had a heart attack when the first gunshot went off.”

Peter doesn’t know how to respond, so they sit in silence. He’s too afraid to ask for the name of the chemistry professor. If he’d only been a little quicker, if he’d only listened to his spidey-sense when it started going off…

Nat keeps her eyes fixed on his face, her gaze soft. She doesn’t ask him if he’s all right. They both know the answer.

“What’s going to happen to me?” asks Peter. He doesn’t want to think about himself, but he wants to think about everyone else even less.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “We’re still figuring it out.”

“Do you have any advice?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the most level-headed person I know,” he says. “My alter-ego was just thrust into the limelight in a massive bonfire of media exposure. You literally leaked all your spysonas onto the internet—badass move, by the way. I don't compliment you on that enough—" 

"Peter."

"What should I expect?”

Nat takes a while to respond. Peter can tell she’s thinking over her answer, turning the words over in her head so she can craft the best response. She tilts her head to the side, and a strand of red hair falls into her face. Folding her hands in front of her face, she surveys him over the tips of her fingers. 

“There are rules when you’re exceptional,” she says. Peter grins at that word— _exceptional_ —because if he were truly exceptional, none of this would have happened. He would’ve been able to subdue the shooter before the shots even started. He would’ve been able to keep his mask on. Now his teammates have to clean up the mess he made, and his life has been set on fire with a chemical agent. Peter and Spiderman are one and the same, and now everybody knows it. 

“You should start a class,” Peter says, instead of saying any of this. “Super Heroing 101, taught by Professor Nat.”

She gives a thin smile, but doesn’t allow him to distract her. “Rule one,” she says. “Never blame yourself for things you can’t control.”

“That’s...that's literally my defining personality trait.” 

“Rule two,” says Nat. “Stay off the fan sites.”

“Sure,” says Peter, like he doesn’t have a Tumblr dedicated to stalking Spiderman themed pages that have been popping up since he fought in Germany. His phone beeps every time the word 'Spiderman' appears in a news headline. His home screen is a screenshot of the comments section of his YouTube channel. 

“No good comes from knowing what the people are saying about you,” Natasha tilts her head to the side, as though she knows he’s full of it. “Believe me, Peter. It’s better not to know.”

“I’m totally with you,” says Peter, who’s spent the better part of the last hour wishing he hadn’t left his phone in his backpack. He desperately wants to know what everyone is saying.

“Rule three and four,” says Nat. “Don’t negotiate with terrorists, and don’t burn bridges just to toast marshmallows over the flames.”

Peter frowns. “Didn’t you tell congress to kiss your—”

“Rule five,” says Nat. “Don’t fall in love with civilians.”

His cheeks flush, because he doesn’t love the idea of discussing dating partners with the black widow. He thinks of MJ, her fierce pride and feisty independence, and wonders if this particular rule is a personal slight against him. 

“These rules are devolving in quality," he complains. "Who said anything about love?” 

“You’ll be in the limelight for as long as you live, Peter,” says Nat. She speaks slowly, as if she’s trying desperately to keep her voice kind. “Don’t put people in danger if you can avoid it.”

“Ms. Potts—”

“Pepper knew what she was getting into,” says Nat. “She was Tony’s assistant for years. There’s no way a sixteen-year-old girl can understand the perils of dating a superhero.”

“Fine, no dating,” says Peter. The floatiness brought on by high-strength painkillers makes it hard to take the rule seriously, and he grins in spite of himself. “I’ve been practicing for that rule all of high school.”

Nat does not smile. Her gaze is almost sympathetic. 

“It will be hard,” she warns. An unrecognizable expression drifts into her eyes. “People will want to get close to you. Some of them will want to hurt you. Even worse, some will want to love you. That’s infinitely more dangerous for both of you.”

“You’re such an optimist. It’s very inspiring.” Peter taps his fingers against his chest and stares up at the ceiling. The white tiles reflect light back down onto his face, and he squints. “Am I allowed to be happy, or is that against your ‘superhero rules?’”

“Few superheroes are truly happy,” says Nat. She doesn’t look at him. Instead, she keeps her gaze fixed on the wooden clock above the sink. “The job is too dangerous, and we see too much tragedy. It weighs on you no matter the strength of your mental defenses.”

“I'm kidding,” says Peter, trying to keep his voice light.

“I’m not,” says Nat. “But I hope you’re an exception, Peter. I hope you find happiness.” 

Peter stares the crimson dot on his bedsheets. It’s been growing steadily larger since MJ and Ned left the room, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. His body is fixing himself. Soon, the only reminder of his injury will be a thin scar, if that. He'll be healed—another day, another wound. How many bullets will he take before he dies?

“And, lastly,” says Natasha, her voice growing warmer. “This rule is the most important of all. Never, ever, _ever_ go to war with the media.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks.

“Communicating with the public is a difficult and complicated game,” she says. “You’re used to having eyes on Spiderman, but you’re not prepared to have eyes on Peter Parker.”

“It can’t be much different,” says Peter. His cheeks flush, and his heart pounds against his rib cage. To think, just this morning, his biggest worry was whether Brad Davis was going to ask MJ to be his study-buddy in calc.

“The media has the power to destroy you,” warns Nat. “If you get a kitten out of a tree, they'll make it look like you're killing baby animals. If you decide to go back to high school, they'll make it look like you're intentionally endangering your classmates. The media has been good to you so far, but no one is immune forever.”

“Can you send down May or Tony?” asks Peter. “I’m ready for someone to lie and say everything is okay.”

Natasha stands up, stretching. For a second, Peter thinks she’s going to breeze out of the room and leave him alone. She’s halfway to the door before she hesitates, and drifts back to the medbed.

With steady, precise movements, she presses a kiss to the curls on his forehead. “Everything is okay,” she murmurs in his ear.

Peter closes his eyes. He listens to her footsteps recede from the room. The door clicks shut behind her. His spidey-sense is tingling, and this time he knows why.

It’s the first time Nat has ever lied to him.


	2. Don't Poke Smokey the Bear, or He'll Set You on Fire

Even after his spidey sense has settled down, Natasha’s lie— _everything will be okay, Peter_ — worms its way deep into his mind. He supposes he needs to get used to the constant fear that his life is about to implode like a watermelon being run over by a dump truck. 

Still, by all definitions of the word, the next couple of days are remarkably okay. The first day after he leaves the medbay, he focuses on the assignments his teachers have emailed May. Three days later, Peter and May have officially moved into the Avengers Tower. A security detail escorts May to and from work, and the crowds of reporters waiting outside have begun to dwindle in numbers. Two days after that, he's established a routine. He wakes up, eats the skittle-free eggs Steve prepares for him, then studies for a couple of hours. He spends his afternoons training with Nat, binge-watching TV shows with Wanda, and messing around in the labs with Tony. 

Despite the fact that he’s living the literal dream, Peter has never been more miserable. 

“When can I have my phone back?” he asks Tony. They’re in the lab, surrounded by whirring machines and the acidic smell of oil. Seven beakers sit in front of Peter, bubbling with different variations of his web-fluid formula. Dum-E stands close by, monitoring the textile strength as Peter tweaks his recipe. 

“Never,” Tony says, not looking up from the blueprints he’s studying. A pair of reading glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, and oil is smeared across his chin.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I."

With dawning horror, Peter realizes that Tony might not be joking. “Mr. Stark, I need my phone and my laptop,” he says. “I can’t keep getting my assignments from May, and I need to let my friends know I’m all right.”

“What friends?” Tony says absently. “You don’t have any friends.” 

“Seriously?” Peter fumes. “This is how it’s going to be?”

“Look, Kid." Tony whips his glasses off of his face and sets them down on the table. “Personally, I don’t believe in telling teenagers what they can and can’t do—”

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“—but, unfortunately, we’ve decided to be a united front about this. No phone, no laptop, and no internet until things have calmed down.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ve decided?’” Peter demands. “Who’s ‘we?’”

“May and me,” Tony says, promptly and with no embarrassment. “And Pepper. And Natasha. And Bruce. Clint didn’t get a vote, because people who break into high schools to spy on kids through the vents shouldn't be trusted with grown-up decisions. Wanda didn’t get a vote because she’s basically a child herself. And Steve didn’t get a vote because he’s a dick, and I’m still working through a plethora of anger issues vis-a-vis his little coup. I won’t bore you with the details. Any other questions?”

“You all sit around and talk about me?” Peter asks. “You realize that’s my worst nightmare, right?”

“You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, kiddo,” says Tony. “Natasha even called Fury to see if he could do something about that J. Jonah Jameson dickwad.”

“Who’s—” Peter stops himself from asking about J. Jonah Jameson the instant he processes the first half of Tony’s statement. “Fury?” Peter says, his voice rising. “Nicholas Joseph Fury, Director of SHIELD?”

“Calm down.”

“Isn’t he dead?” Peter feels his cheeks flush, and he leans closer, lowering his voice. “Oh my God, Mr. Stark. Did the Red Room teach Nat how to communicate with dead people?”

“What are you…no, Peter, Natasha isn't a Ouija board.” Tony stares at Peter, his eyes narrowed. The gauntlet he’s adjusting sparks beneath the needle-nosed pliers, but neither of them pay it any attention. “That’s not how the whole 'death' thing works.”

“That's disappointing.”

“Unless you actually see someone die, and I mean watch the life bleed out of their eyes—” Tony catches Peter’s eye and immediately stops talking. The sarcastic half-smirk drops from Tony’s face, and they both take a second to collect themselves. “What I mean is, you should never assume someone is dead. Do you know Twitter informs me I've kicked it?”

“Once a week?”

“Give or take.” Tony scratches at his chin. “Fury’s still alive, but try to keep it quiet. Don’t tell your friends.”

“As you so eloquently pointed out,” Peter deadpans, “I don’t have any friends.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Tony says, nodding approvingly. “In any case, SHIELD is basically Hydra now, so it’s not like Fury has much pull. He told Nat she’s on her own. It really ticked her off, and that woman is scarier than Brucie when she’s angry. Fury may have survived the Hydra fiasco, but if he keeps sending her calls to voicemail, he’ll be dead by the end of the week.”

“Who’s J. Jonah Jameson?”

Tony visibly winces. “Don’t worry about it. Let the adults handle things—”

One of the gauntlets that Tony is tweaking short circuits, smoking and crackling as the wires spark. A tiny flame latches on to the corner of the blueprints, but the paper is too thick to catch fire. Even so, Dum-E reacts before Peter has time to move. The machine whirs and rotates, dousing the entire area with a thick layer of vanilla-scented foam. Peter covers his face with his hands and manages to protect himself from most of the spray. Tony’s not so lucky. He stands up with white suds dripping from his face, and the force of the movement topples his stool. 

“That’s it,” Tony says to Dum-E. “I’m dumping you at a scrap-yard.”

Dum-E beeps and lowers his head. “Mr. Stark,” Peter protests, draping a protective hand over one of Dum-E’s claws. “Stop being mean to him. He was putting out the fire.”

“Putting out the…Peter, everything in this lab is flame retardant.” Tony makes a face and wipes the foam off himself with a nearby cloth. The motor-oil on his chin smears up his cheeks. Tony raises his voice. “Dum-E _knows_ that nothing in here is flammable.”

“Everything is flammable if you try hard enough,” Peter points out. “Smokey the Bear taught us that.”

“That reference is fifty years too old for you to use,” Tony says. “And that’s the opposite of what Smokey was trying to say—" 

“Only you can keep Dum-E from being sold to a scrap-yard,” Peter says, trying to make his voice low and gravely. 

"That's not funny."

"Don't poke Smokey the Bear, or he'll set you on fire."

“I…I don’t even know how to respond to that.” Tony stands up and shoves the foam-soaked blueprints into a nearby garbage can. “Congratulations, kid, you’ve rendered me speechless. 'Mentor a snot-nosed teenager,' they said. 'It will be fun,' they said. Well, you know what—” 

Peter gives Dum-E a comforting pat on the head. “It’s in Dum-E’s nature to help when he can,” Peter says. “Don’t make him feel bad. Remember Nat’s first rule?”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks as though he’s trying very hard to stay patient. “Are you on drugs, Peter? You can tell me, I won’t be mad. I mean, I’ll be a little mad—"

“Nat gave me a bunch of rules to follow, now that Peter Parker is in the public eye.” Peter wiggles his eyebrows, and Tony rolls his eyes. “The first rule is that you should never blame yourself for things out of your control.” 

“Since when are you taking advice from _Nat_?” Tony asks. 

Peter shrugs, doing his best to keep his eyes wide and innocent. “She gives good advice,” he says. “I’m her protégé.”

“You’re _my_ protégé,” says Tony. “You can’t let two people mentor you. I'm calling 'betrayal.'”

“Fine,” says Peter. “What are your rules?”

“I…what?”

“Your rules,” Peter repeats, folding his arms across his chest. “What master guidance can you offer me to help me navigate the treacherous waters of being a superhero?”

Tony points at Peter with the foam-soaked oilcloth. “I know you’re being a little shit right now, but I don’t care,” he says. “Here are my rules. Don’t add to the population, don’t subtract from the population, don’t go to prison. And if you do go to prison, assert dominance early.” 

“That’s basically what Nat told me.”

“Really?”

“No. Her rules were better.” 

Tony throws the oilcloth at Peter. It lands on his head, sending an avalanche of foam down the back of his neck. Peter laughs and twists away, grabbing the strongest of the web-fluid beakers. He begins to wind the sticky liquid over a pair of metal needles, condensing it into a pod canister. 

“Hey,” says Peter, trying desperately to keep his voice casual. “When can I start patrolling again?” 

Peter expects Tony to make a joke, or to say something sarcastic that completely changes the direction of the conversation. Instead, Tony stays silent. Peter can feel Tony’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t have the courage to meet Tony’s gaze. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, grabbing another beaker when the first one is wound neatly into the pod. 

“We’re not benching you forever, kid,” says Tony, after what feels like the longest pause in the world. “You just need to be a little patient.”

“Why does it matter if people know my identity?” asks Peter. “You revealed yourself on national television, and no one cares that you’re Iron Man.”

“First of all, everyone cares that I’m Iron Man,” says Tony. “I’m very important. But more to the point, I don’t fight criminals in the backstreet allies of New York. I _rarely_ go out alone.”

“Yeah, but—"

“A lot of people are going to put a price on your head, kid,” says Tony. “We need to figure out how to keep you safe. Clint suggested wrapping you in bubble wrap and hiding you in the vents, but his suggestion no longer have value to me. It’s a decent idea, though.”

Peter learned a long time ago that any time Tony uses the word “kid” more than twice in a conversation, that conversation is going absolutely nowhere. He doesn’t respond to the jab. Dum-E gives Peter a comforting pat on his shoulder, just hard enough to leave a bruise. Peter has the sudden urge to kiss Dum-E on his hydraulic arm, but knows Tony would never let him live it down. Tony already gives him a hard time for making small talk with the roomba that cleans the lab floors. 

Tony’s voice becomes pensive. He sits back down on his stool and places a pen to the corner of his mouth. “I like that rule,” he says suddenly. His tone is indifferent, but Peter knows that means he cares a lot. The more apathetic Tony acts, the harder he’s working to hide emotion. “Never blame yourself for things you can’t control. Nat has her moments of occasional intellegence.”

“Seriously?” Peter asks, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice. He wonders if it would be inappropriate to joke that everything he learned about self-blame, he learned from Tony. 

“I like the rule as it applies to you,” Tony amends, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He swivels on the stool, keeping his eyes fixed on the smoking gauntlet. “You need to take better care of yourself. Keep studying, drink water, eat kale—”

Peter feels himself perk up. “I have this great recipe where I sauté kale in cookie dough instead of butter—”

“—take it one day at a time,” Tony finishes, completely ignoring the interjection. “Accept that you need to be patient, because there’s a lot of things you can’t control right now.” 

Those words spark something deep within Peter. All at once, he realizes something, something he’s forgotten ever since the shooting. He’s felt out-of-control, like he’s driving a car the wrong way down a highway, blindfolded and bound. Listening to Tony tell him to be patient makes Peter realize that _he doesn’t have to be patient_. No one will tell him what’s going on—fine. Peter will just have to find out on his own. As long as he’s subtle about it, Mr. Stark will never know. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “This conversation was super helpful.”

“Sarcasm is the eighth sin,” Tony says. “It’s worse than the first seven combined. It will rot your tongue way faster than all the sugary junk you cook up.”

“I’m not being sarcastic,” Peter says, and for once, it’s the truth. 

\---

Half-an-hour later, Peter finds himself in front of Wanda’s door. The air is comfortably cool up here, and the delicate sound of a guitar drifts from inside the room. The oak wood is decorated with dried peonies. Peter knocks and considers making a do-you-want-to-build-a-snowman joke, but Frozen is played out. Wanda prefers sitcoms anyway. 

The door swings open. Wanda stands in front of him with a mulish expression. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of black jeans, and her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Peter brushes by her into the bedroom. To his disappointment, the television on her dresser is turned off, so there’s no hope of catching a snippet of the news. A thin layer of dust coats her windowsill and bedtable. Her guitar lies across her bed, the wood glinting in the light from the setting sun. 

Peter sits on the white chair that faces her bed. He pulls his legs up to his chest, crossing his heels on the seat. Wanda sits on the floor across from him, leaning her back against the bed’s footboard. She stares up at Peter with a confused expression, tilting her head to the side as she surveys him.

“What?” she asks. 

“Do you know who J. Jonah Jameson is?” Peter asks. 

“That’s the most American name I’ve ever heard,” Wanda says, wrinkling her nose. “It is almost as bad as ‘Peter Parker.’”

“Hurtful.”

“I’m mostly joking.” Wanda gives him a small smile. “Why do we care about Jameson? Did he do something to hurt you? Should I get my fighting clothes?”

“I’m not sure,” says Peter. “Can I borrow your phone?”

Wanda visibly hesitates. She tugs at her ponytail and begins to chew on her bottom lip. Peter waits, but she stays silent and gives no indication that she wants to be complicit in Peter’s investigation. Still, she doesn’t say no. Peter takes that as a good sign. 

Tony said that Wanda didn’t have a vote in the cut-Peter-off-from-the-internet decision that ruined his life. She’s can’t be much older than Peter, but no one knows her exact age. The best they can figure, she’s on the hard side of twenty or the soft side of twenty-four. Cut off from the outside world, she’s the closes thing Peter has to a peer. She kept watching Gilmore Girls with him, even after the show got bad and May tapped out. She saw _The Rise of Skywalker_ with Ned, even if she did spend the entire time criticizing the special effects. She can find potholes in films that Peter would never see in a million years, and she brews her own kombucha in her walk-in closet. The drink is almost good enough to rival Nat’s hot chocolate. They’re friends, close friends, and the fact that she’s not eager to help him means…

“Mr. Stark told you not to help me,” Peter realizes, his heart sinking in his chest.

“ _Mr. Stark_ doesn’t tell me what to do,” Wanda drawls, raising an eyebrow. 

“Nat, then.”

“Nat,” Wanda agrees, folding her arms over her chest. “She says people are saying things you should not have to hear.”

“Do you think she’s right?” Nat's always right; they both know that. Still, Peter feels a flare of hope in his chest. Maybe—just maybe—Wanda will be the one person in Avengers Tower who doesn’t treat him with kid gloves. 

“I have no opinion,” says Wanda. “But children do not necessarily need to be protected. Katniss and Princess Leia were sixteen when they started revolutions. Harry Potter was eleven when he began to fight the dark lord. Phineas and Ferb—" 

“I’m a lot older than Phineas and Ferb,” Peter says. Curse her weird fixation with pop culture. 

“You are the same age as the vampire slayer, Buffy,” says Wanda. “I like that show very much.” 

“Yeah,” says Peter, wondering how he can change the conversation back to her phone. “Buffy is awesome. Hey, Wanda—”

“Buffy is much more powerful than Spiderman.”

“What? No,” says Peter.

“Agree to disagree.”

“I have super strength,” Peter says, a bit indignantly. “I latched onto the side of a plane and defeated The Vulture! I designed my own web shooters!”

“How many vampires have you killed?”

“I haven’t kept count,” says Peter. He’s not sure if Wanda is messing with him, or if she actually believes that vampires are strolling up and down the streets of Queens, waiting for Spiderman to kill them with holy water and wooden stakes. 

Wanda stares at Peter, her expression neutral. Her dark eyes are sober, and her face is void of any expression. For one horrible second, Peter's afraid she’s going to keep asking him about vampires. 

“I will help you,” Wanda says, and Peter exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “But you must understand that we are in this together. You and I are a team, like Olly and Jon Snow.”

“Uh…” says Peter. “You haven’t finished watching Game of Thrones yet, have you?”

“I’m on the fifth season. Why?”

“No reason,” says Peter, folding his hands over his chest. “I…ah…really like that comparison. We’re the Olly and Jon of the Avenger’s Tower.” 

“Why are you smiling?”

“I'm looking forward to teaming up with you.”

Wanda’s lips twitch into a frown. “You must not do anything stupid without consulting me,” she warns, narrowing her eyes. “We're in this together, no?”

“We’re in this together,” agrees Peter, and he means it. Having an ally is nice. He loves May to death, and Mr. Stark and Nat are fantastic, but there's something about Wanda that reminds him of Ned. Peter misses his friends more than he misses patrolling as Spiderman. 

“All right.” Wanda stands, and moves to sit beside him on the plush chair. Peter scoots over, making room for her. Wanda pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. 

“Are you ready to find out what the world is saying about Spiderman?” she asks.

“Yeah,” says Peter, grinning at her. “Bring it on.”


	3. Don't Hate the Entrepreneurs

“Okay,” says Peter. “You know how Nat told me to stay off the fan sites? You know how I thought she was overreacting?”

“Sure,” says Wanda.

“She wasn’t overreacting,” says Peter. “I want to bathe my eyeballs in bleach.”

 _Spidermemes_ —God, that’s the cringiest thing that Peter’s ever heard—have officially ruined his life. Pictures of Peter are being uploaded to the internet at a rate of almost one-thousand-per-minute. They paint him out to be a saint or a terrorist, with no middle ground. One of the most upvoted photographs shows Peter Parker drop kicking a baby. The photoshop is good enough that half the commenters are convinced it’s real. Another one shows him dumping a bucket of trash into a lake. At least that one’s obviously fake; the Spiderman costume is frayed, and it’s wearer has a body composition similar to Gru from _Despicable Me._

“I didn’t know that Mother Teresa presented you with a Metal of Valor.” Wanda tilts her head to the side and studies the image on her phone.

“Didn’t she die before I was born?”

“Oh. Yes. The comments say she passed in 1997.” Wanda grins and holds out her phone. “Look! It’s your face on Arnold Shwarzenegger’s body.” 

It’s a disturbing image. Peter’s face, which has clearly been lifted from his school photo, is bug-eyed and leering. Shwarzenegger’s body, young and ridiculously muscular, is flexed to perfection. Peter spends half a second eyeing the horrifying image, then throws himself on Wanda’s bed. He presses his face into one of her beaded pillows. The fabric smells faintly of lavender, and the sequins scratch at his face. Even so, he can’t bring himself to sit up. 

Wanda shifts in the chair, and the leather squeaks beneath her. She seems oddly captivated by the fan sites, even though Peter’s pretty desperate to move onto the darker parts of the internet. He wants to find out who J. Jonah Jameson is, and why Mr. Stark wouldn’t give him any details. Still, four months of being friends with Wanda has taught him not to rush her. She continues to scroll through the fan pages, her eyes bright and her lips twitching. Every once in a while, Wanda tilts her head back and laughs in a way that feels very unsupportive. Peter’s starting to wish he’d just sucked it up and kept his head buried in the sand. 

“The Peter Shwarzenegger hybrid got seven thousand retweets,” Wanda informs him. “Many believe that it’s real. Activists-Against-Children-On-Steroids has made you their new poster child.”

“They should interview Ned,” says Peter. “He’ll tell them all about how the steroids gave me the ability to lay eggs.”

Wanda looks up. “You can lay eggs?”

“Yeah, I spit them out of my mouth.” Peter nuzzles deeper against the pillow and tries to make his voice as serious as possible. “They break when they hit the floor, and thousands of baby tarantulas crawl out and attack my enemies. How do you think I beat the Vulture?”

“I think your lying,” says Wanda, “but I don’t know enough about your powers to question it.”

“Do people actually think I’m on steroids?” 

Wanda studies the Peter Shwarzenegger hybrid photo and takes a long time to answer. “It’s shoddy photoshop combined with a terrible picture of you,” she says. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“I was sick. May made me get my picture taken anyway. They wouldn’t give us a refund.”

“Your pupils are red.”

“I’d took a dozen Benadryl, and then I had to drink a six-pack of Red Bulls to cancel it out." 

“You know that the commercials are exaggerating when they say Red Bull gives you wings,” says Wanda. "They only say that to sell more products. They're liars."

“I have a fast metabolism,” says Peter. "Do you know how much coffee I have to drink to get a caffeine fix?"

He grabs one of the throw blankets folded at the end of Wanda’s bed, and burrows into the fuzzy fabric. He feels a little better once he's wrapped up like a burrito, but nothing can protect him from the avalanche of information he’s trying to process. He can’t get the Peter-dropkicks-a-baby photo out of his mind. The photoshop was so fantastic that he's half convinced it's real, and he actually punted an infant child at some point in time.

“I like it,” says Wanda, who’s still talking about the Peter Shwarzenegger photo. “It’s so…captivating. It’s like watching a Saw movie. I can’t look away, even though I feel it hurting my mind.”

“Let’s talk about anything else,” says Peter. 

“Here’s a self-insert fanfiction about you,” says Wanda. “It’s very well written. Would you like me to read it aloud?” 

Peter cringes. “Is it about me or Spiderman?”

“Both,” says Wanda. “They misspelled your last name, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Peter Porker has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Peter doesn’t have time to decide how he feels about that, because the next words out of Wanda’s mouth stop his heart. “Do you know someone named ‘Eugene Thomson?’” she asks.

Peter prays— _prays_ —that the next words out of her mouth are something like, _he’s transferring schools to get away from all this craziness._

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s Flash’s given name.”

Wanda turns her phone to Peter, her face completely blank. “He’s selling your gym clothes,” she says. “Your sweaty tee-shirt sold for four grand.”

Peter’s brain hurts so much that he can’t even form a response. Trying to decide how he wants to kill Flash, Peter snatches the phone out of Wanda’s hands. Sure enough, Flash has a whole Facebook page going. The site is entitled “Spiderclothes,” and he's pawning everything from chewed up pencils to textbooks from the Midtown library. 

As “proof” of the website’s legitimacy, Flash has linked a picture from the last decathlon meet. In the photograph, it looks as though Flash has his arm around Peter. It makes Peter’s blood boil, because if he’s remembering that moment correctly, Flash was trying to poke him in the side with a paper clip. Flash photoshopped a cartoonish smile over Peter’s glower. Peter can’t tell if he looks like serial killer, or if he just looks stoned. No wonder the steroid rumors are gaining traction.

“Those aren’t even my gym clothes,” Peter says, scrolling down. “Is Flash buying new PE clothes and then jacking up the price? That's a scam! He's scamming people!”

“Perhaps he really believes they’re yours,” Wanda suggests. "Don't believe the worst in people."

“I’m going to kill him,” says Peter. “This is the worst thing he’s ever done to me, and he's done some bad stuff. Last summer he started a rumor that I went away to camp and a bear clawed me to pieces.”

“That’s not so bad,” says Wanda. “I’m sure people knew he was joking.”

“He photoshopped a death certificate,” says Peter. “He made Ned cry.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

“Flash does a lot of messed up stuff. This is a new low, though." He turns the phone to face her, revealing a picture of a ‘bottle of water that Spiderman HIMSELF drank from!!!’ that’s being sold for almost fifty dollars. 

“I don’t even use plastic water bottles,” Peter complains. “They’re bad for the environment.”

Wanda shrugs. “Don’t hate an entrepreneur,” she says. “Your friend Eugene saw an opening, and he took it. That is to be commended.”

“He’s not my friend,” says Peter. He’s about ready to march down to Midtown and slug Flash as hard as he can. “Four hundred dollars for a pair of gym socks? You’ve got to be kidding me!” 

Wanda nods wisely. “I buy my socks in the quality-for-quantity packs from Walmart,” she tells him, as if he needs to know that. “Much cheaper.” 

“’Worn by your favorite neighborhood vigilante as he swings through the city?’” Peter practically yells. “I don’t wear socks under my suit! They get bunched up around my ankles.” 

“You should tell him that,” Wanda says. “I’m sure he’s very concerned about the legitimacy of his products.”

Scrolling through Flash’s store, Peter feels hopelessness bubbling up inside him. He’s not sure what’s worse—the fact that Flash is ripping off strangers, or the fact that the aforementioned strangers are trying to buy a sixteen-year-old’s gym socks on the internet. It’s creepy on so many levels, that Peter doesn’t know whether he should feel flattered, violated, or angry. He decides to feel all three and takes a moment to brainstorm all the ways he can get Flash back. One thing is for sure: like hell if Peter’s going to let Flash have his place on the decathlon team. Peter’s competing this year if it’s the last thing he does. Flash is going to be an alternate until the day he dies. 

“Can you leave a one-star review on a Facebook account?” Peter asks, forcing his mind to return to the gravity of the situation. “If I report the page, what will happen?”

“Nothing, probably,” Wanda says. 

“I’m going to pretend I was a customer,” Peter says. “I’ll leave a disgruntled review saying I was ripped off.”

“Good idea,” Wanda says. “That will show him.”

“You think so?”

Wanda narrows her eyes and folds her arms over her chest. Her disgruntled glower reminds him of May. Peter knows it’s a stupid idea—there’s clearly nothing he can do to shut down Flash’s hustle—but it’s so freaking creepy, knowing strangers are trying to buy his things. He should be worrying about math tests, not wondering if people are hoping to use Peter's bodily fluids to clone him.

“Your right. Leaving a bad review won’t do anything.” 

“No.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?"

“Ignore him,” says Wanda. “To gain any credibility, we’d have to show your face.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” says Peter. “God forbid I show my face. The general public has no idea what I look like, and I’d love to keep it that way. If you Google ‘Peter Parker,’ nothing comes up. I’m completely anonymous.” 

“You’re being crazy.”

“Why is responding to this such a bad idea?” asks Peter, running a hand through his hair. He rolls onto his back and stares up at Wanda, clutching the throw pillow to his chest. “They’re buying my socks,” he mutters, and pity creeps into Wanda’s eyes. 

“Let’s finish seeing what else is out there,” says Wanda. “Then we can make a plan that’s not stupid.”

“Stupid plans are kind of my thing,” says Peter, but he lets Wanda sit beside him on the bed. Her long fingers nimble and quick, she types ‘Peter Parker’ into the search engine.

There are 1,910,000 results.

\---

The Spiderclothes Facebook page isn’t even the creepiest thing that’s trending. Someone – there’s no information about who – has published Peter’s entire day-to-day schedule from the past year. The accuracy is eerie at best, and downright stalkery at worst. His old address, school email account, and phone number have all been doxed. 

There’s footage of reporters flocking to the MDC Men’s Federal Penitentiary in attempts to secure an interview with the Vulture. Peter can’t find any evidence that Mr. Toomes gave any interviews, but several news outlets are assuring their viewers that they’re working on a quote. Liz, who hasn’t posted anything on her social media accounts in over a year, tweeted one sentence twenty-four hours ago: “Forgive, but never forget.” It fills Peter with a deep unease, and mind-clenching guilt. He wonders if it would be weird to text her, then remembers he doesn’t have access to his phone. _Sorry, Liz,_ he thinks, and wonders if this is something that’s going to come back and haunt him later on. 

And then there are the news segments that revolve around the identity reveal. Apparently, Betty Brant’s broadcast—which went from 13 to 10,000 subscribers overnight—was purchased by CNN. Peter and Wanda spend fifteen minutes listening Betty flail between arguments that range from “There’s no way Peter is Spiderman” to “I knew it all along” to “He has a way of disappearing” to “He doesn’t have time to do his calc homework, how can he be a superhero?” Peter can’t decide whether he should feel flattered or violated. Betty has never even spoken to him, and now she’s telling anyone who gets past the paywall about the time Peter threw up all over the substitute teacher in seventh grade.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Peter mumbles. “Ned dared me to eat a spoonful of Flash’s hair gel.”

“You ate hair gel?” 

“He gave me his limited edition Han Solo lunchbox as payment,” Peter says. “I have no regrets.”

“I’m sure that lunchbox was a huge comfort to your substitute teacher.” 

One of the other popular reporters seems to be Cristine Everhart. Peter’s pretty sure that something happened between her and Mr. Stark, because she seems to hate him with a vigor. Almost all her segments roll back to attacking the irresponsibility of “Tony and the other Child-Endangerers, sorry, Avengers.” It’s pithy, and it’s caught on; #spidermanischildlabor is trending on twitter.

“I’m sixteen,” Peter mutters, for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Yes,” Wanda says, “I think that’s her point.” 

“I’m old enough to drive.”

“Didn’t you total a car?”

“No,” says Peter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes,” he admits, when Wanda narrows her eyes. “I mean, I know the basics of driving. I just can’t do it legally.”

J. Jonah Jameson, as it turns out, is the devil incarnate. Peter is used to the “Spiderman is a menace” narrative; it’s been pushed by radical journalists ever since the ferry incident. Unfortunately, Jameson is in a league of his own. With a bushy black mustache and spittle flying from the corners of his lips, he seems like the kind of guy who yells at waiters for existing. Every time he moves his lips, the mustache squirms up and down, as menacing as a Disney villain. It reminds Peter of a large, dark worm. 

“Spiderman, Peter…whoever he is, he needs to be held accountable for his actions,” says Jameson, in his most controversial talk show episode, entitled _Why Spiderman Should Be Spidercanned_. The video has just under 7 million views. “How many people have died at his hands? How many scandals has Tony Stark covered up for him? How many babies has he drop kicked away from their mothers? We have a right to untangle Spiderman’s spiderweb of spiderlies. I won’t rest until Parker and his minions are behind bars.”

To Wanda’s amusement and Peter’s horror, the comments section is wildly divided:

\---

 _arandomduck:_ im missing something here, isn’t spiderman a hero?

 _downwiththegovernment: @arandomduck_ I think Jameson is referring to the fact that Spiderman tortured a bunch of people to death and then TS brushed it under the rug

 _arandomduck: @downwiththegovernment_ when?!! I never heard about that

 _downwiththegovernment: @arandomduck_ idk, a couple of months ago. He also shot up his school

 _spiderfan202:_ that never happened. Someone else shot up the school, he literally took down the shooter and saved a bunch of lives

 _downwiththegovernment: @spiderfan202_ I notice you didn’t say anything about the torture allegations

 _tomtomlizard:_ he gets cats out of trees and does backflips, c’mon you guys

\---

“It could be worse,” says Wanda, her voice mild.

“How could it be worse?” demands Peter. His head has gone numb. He’s sitting on the floor in front of Wanda’s chair, his face buried between his knees. It feels as though they’ve been doing this for days, and it hasn’t even been an hour. The sun is just starting to set, and Peter can hear feint sounds coming from the common quarters. Steve has started making dinner. Soon he’ll have to go out and talk to people, and act as if he doesn’t know that Jameson and his followers want Peter to be tried as an adult and given the death penalty. 

“You should see what people say about me,” says Wanda. “At least we haven’t stumbled upon any naked Peter fanart.”

“That would be child pornography."

“See? Wouldn’t that be worse?” 

"'Not as bad as CP' isn't exactly a resounding endorsement.”

Wanda purses her lips and tucks her phone into her back pocket. Her brown eyes look faintly red in the light from the setting sun. Her smile is small and very sad. 

“You’ll get used to this, Peter,” she says. “People love to hate things, especially things they do not understand.” 

“I’m going to get facial reconstruction surgery,” Peter says. “I’m going to dye my hair bright orange. I’ll change my name to John Doe and I’ll move to the middle of nowhere.”

“I’d pick a different name, if I were you." 

“What am I going to do, Wanda?” Peter says. He begins to pace, his heart thudding against his chest. “I’m not ready for this…exposure, or whatever you want to call it. Two weeks ago, no one knew my name, and now I’m facing torture allegations and the freaking _death penalty_?” 

"The rumors bother you unless they’re true.” Wanda narrows her eyes. “Have you ever tortured someone?”

“All the time,” says Peter. “It’s my favorite hobby. I’ll put on my Spiderman suit, drag someone into a back ally, and see how many times I can stab them before they pass out. Don’t worry, it’s in the name of science.”

“I cannot tell if you’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Wanda says, her voice calm. “People will say what they want to say. Let them. Engaging the media will only lead to more hate.”

“I just…” Peter stops pacing and folds his arms over his chest. “I want to control the narrative. I feel so—”

“Helpless? Ineffectual? Weak?”

“Thanks. I was going to say ‘attacked.’”

“Aww,” Wanda says, her lips twitching. “Do you need a tissue? Perhaps a hug?”

“We have to do something.”

“I let you use my phone,” Wanda says, crossing her legs. Draped across the white leather chair, clad in her dark clothes, she looks a bit like Cruella De Vil. “I showed you what’s out there. What more do you want?”

“I want to fight,” says Peter. “With or without you, but preferably with.”

Peter exhales, trying to gather his thoughts. None of this is Wanda’s fault, and taking his frustration out on her is a shitty thing to do. He needs to pull himself together and stop acting like a child. He needs to fix what he can and accept that some things are out of his control. 

“If I had the ability to fight the public’s hate,” Wanda says. “Do you not think I would’ve done so already?”

Peter drops his eyes to the floor. “I didn’t mean—”

“Do you know what they say about me? What they call me? What they say they wish to do to me?” Wanda stands up and puts her hands on Peter’s shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes. “They want me to be executed.”

Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot. “We should make a club,” he mutters. 

“Do you think this is a game?” 

“I…no.”

“Do you think you’re the only person who wants to disappear? Who wishes everyone would forget about you, so you could live a normal life?”

Peter can’t think of anything to say, so he grabs Wanda and pulls her into a hug. She goes still for a second, then relaxes and gives him a small pat on his back. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her shoulder. 

Wanda gently extracts herself from his arms. A fire burns deep in her eyes, and her jaw is set.

“If we’re going to do this,” she says, “we're doing it the right way.”

\---

Peter doesn’t have time to lament the fact that MJ’s contact is under “favorites” in Wanda’s phone. MJ answers on the second ring. 

“Hi, MJ,” says Wanda, “I’m here with Peter, and—”

“I know why your calling,” says MJ. “It’s about time. You ready to launch our counter-attack?”

“You have a plan?” Peter asks her.

“Of course I’ve got a plan,” says MJ. “I’m the unofficial campaign manager of your life. Let me ask you this: are you afraid of fire?”

“Uh…it depends.”

“Do you still have access to your Spiderman YouTube channel?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” says MJ. “Let's have some fun.”


	4. Don't Tell Her about the Dental Floss

“Any questions or comments about the script?” MJ asks.

“I don’t know what to say, MJ.” Peter stares at Wanda, who’s trying to smother her laughter in a throw pillow. His hands feel clammy, and his stomach churns. Even so, he can feel his lips twitching. Say what you will about Michelle Jones, but the girl is a mastermind. 

MJ’s tone is brisk. “I was correct in assuming you have a Costco sized bag of skittles lying around?”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Yup,” she says, her voice unbearably smug. “Make sure this doesn’t distract you from your flashcards. MJ out.”

Peter hangs up the phone and throws himself on Wanda’s bed. She gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder and lays beside him. After a moment’s pause, she ruffles his hair. Peter wonders if this is what it would be like to have an older sister. He’s fantasized about having siblings, being bonded by blood, all that cliché jazz. Funnily enough, the idea of posting YouTube videos with a magic-wielding, emotionally distant superwoman was never part of that daydream.

“My life is a joke,” he mumbles into her blanket.

“Not really,” Wanda says. “Jokes are funny.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

She stifles a laugh with her fist and rolls onto her side. Propping her head up with her hand, she studies Peter. Her expression is solemn, with just the feintest hint of red in her brown pupils. He can feel her crawling through his mind, and he doesn’t have the energy to keep her out.

“Are you ready to start filming?” she asks. 

“You realize that flaming people doesn’t usually involve actual flames?” Peter asks. 

Wanda makes a noise of affirmation in the back of her throat.

“Maybe we should go back to the drawing board,” Peter says. “This seems like a really, really, bad idea.”

“Nonsense,” Wanda says, waving a flippant hand through the air. “MJ promised me fire, and I’m here to ensure her vision is properly executed.” 

\---

It takes half an hour before they have a video that’s half decent. Peter uploads it to the computer, adds a caption, and is just about to post it to YouTube when Clint sticks his head into the room.

“Dinner is ready,” he says, and then he looks around with an unreadable expression on his face. 

Peter realizes how much of a mess they’ve made. The camera is in pieces on the floor, Wanda’s lighter has been crushed underfoot, and Peter’s eyebrows are singed. The hairspray they used to make a flamethrower smells like lavender, but the aroma is obscured by the stench of burnt hair.

“What happened in here?” Clint asks, his voice surprisingly unbothered.

Wanda and Peter stand frozen in front of the bed. Peter covers his burnt eyebrows with a hand, trying to make it look like he’s checking his temperature instead of hiding a minor injury. Wanda puts down the bottle of aloe vera. She tries to smile, but it looks more like a leer. Clint’s looking more nervous by the second. 

“We’re making a movie,” Peter says.

“We’re setting things on fire,” Wanda says, at the same time.

Clint folds his arms over his chest. “As an adult, I should lecture you about the dangers of arson,” he says. “As a fellow fire enthusiast, I applaud you. What have you guys been lighting up?”

“I’d rather not say,” Peter says.

Clint’s expression is serious, which makes Peter feel edgy and restless. Clint isn’t supposed to be genuine. He’s overheard enough of MJ’s therapy calls to know that careful-Clint is infinitely more dangerous than careless-Clint. 

“Is this your drug den?” Clint asks. “I won’t tell May. I won’t even tell Tony if you don’t want me to. You can confide in me.”

Peter glances at Wanda. Her expression is mild, if a bit guarded. Peter knows she and Clint are close. He’s not privy to all the details, but he gets the feeling that something happened a few years back. His best guess is it has something to do with her brother. Wanda slipped up and called Peter ‘Pietro’ once—just once—and although they’ve never talked about it, they have an unspoken agreement that it will never happen again. Never.

“You’re scaring me,” Clint says, his voice mild. “I was joking, but you're actually on drugs, aren’t you?”

“We’re melting down skittles to make giant skittle cookies,” Peter says. “Do you want one?”

He bends over and picks up one of the massacred products from the plate beneath the bed. Skittles have always been Peter’s favorite type of candy—he puts them in everything from scrambled eggs to pancakes—but he has to admit the cookie are less than appealing. The hairspray flamethrower made them taste like charred, lavender scented nightmare cookies. Even so, Peter’s eaten three. All right, four. 

“That’s…not what I was expecting,” Clint says.

Peter offers him the plate. Clint takes a cookie and stares at it like the skittles murdered his family. 

“Why are they brown?”

“In the words of Paul Hollywood, they are overbaked,” Wanda says. 

“Also, we didn’t start segregating the colors until halfway through the first batch,” Peter continues. “We thought they’d be rainbow colored, but clearly that didn’t happen.”

“It was very disappointing,” Wanda agrees. 

“You…” Clint stares at them. “You ruined candy.”

Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot. 

“It was a science experiment,” he says. “Kind of. It’s a long story.”

“You couldn’t just smoke pot like a normal teenager?” Clint asks. “This is so weird.”

“Hey, my life isn’t all skittle cookies and charred rainbows,” Peter says. “I can be edgy. I whittled down my ‘It’s Not Cool to Do Drugs’ pencil down until it said, ‘Cool to Do Drugs.’ I’m a rebel.”

“What did you hope to accomplish with this?” Clint asks. 

He sniffs the skittle cookie with a bemused expression on his face. Peter tugs it out of his hands and takes a bite. It tastes like sugary, scorched air freshener, but skittles are skittles. Clint looks almost impressed as he watches Peter chew.

“It was MJ’s idea,” Wanda says.

Clint shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Fair enough. Who am I to question MJ’s eternal wisdom?” 

“How come it’s only cool if it was MJ’s idea?” Peter asks. Even if he didn’t have a massive, unrequited crush on MJ, he’d still find it a total double standard. Then again, he can't really fathom how Clint and MJ bonded. MJ told him about catching Clint breaking into the school’s ventilation system, and subsequently being hired as his newest shrink. Peter doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _want_ to understand.

“You just handed me a melted skittle cookie that smells like burnt perfume," Clint says, his voice slow. "And _you're_ judging _me_."

“Actually, it’s hairspray.”

“Oh,” Clint says. “That’s better.”

“He has a point,” Wanda murmurs.

“Thank you,” Clint says, with a surprising amount of dignity. “As I was saying before we started on this tangent, dinner’s ready. Peter, what’s going on with your eyebrows?”

“It’s a fashion statement.” Peter rubs the back of his calf with his foot. He’s not sure Clint will buy it, but it’s worth a try. “MJ says all the youths are doing it.”

“In that case, fantastic,” Clint says, nodding shrewdly. “I’ll ask her if I should do mine to match.” 

\---

After Clint leaves, Peter and Wanda open her laptop. The video is ready to be uploaded, but Peter hesitates. It feels wrong to go against May and Tony, but what else is he supposed to do? Sit here and let J. Jonah Jameson tear Spiderman apart? The video is rough around the edges, but MJ was right. It gives Peter a chance to control the narrative. For the first time since he heard gunshots go off in the middle of chem class, he feels in command of his life.

“We don’t have to do this,” Wanda says, her voice gentle.

“I know,” Peter says, and he hits _post_.

\--- 

Dinner goes as well as Peter expects.

Under normal circumstances, Peter’s good at playing it cool. One of these days he’ll earn the nickname ‘smooth Spidey’ or something. Sure, there are times when he can’t keep his shit together, but he kept Spiderman a secret from May for a whole year. How hard will it be to hide the fact that he broke Nat’s rule? 

“It’s not like she’s a super spy or anything,” Peter says. 

“Relax,” Wanda murmurs, as they walk down the hallway to the dining quarters. She throws an arm around his shoulder and ruffles his hair. 

“I _am_ relaxed,” Peter says.

“You’re vibrating,” she says. “You need to calm down. Perhaps we should take up yoga.”

Peter doesn’t have time to respond to that intriguing idea before she swings the door open and pulls him into the dining room—a long, carpeted area with a massive wooden table. The room has seen Avengers conferences, accords that violate human rights, Vision’s cooking, and—if you believe the rumors—a Hulk rampage after Clint 'accidentally' dosed Dr. Banner with PCP. The table is covered with steaming dishes. Tony sits at the end of the bench, his leather shoes propped up beside a bottle of wine. Pepper knocks them down as she passes. Clint sits on Tony's left, and to the left of him is Steve. He offers Peter a small smile as they enter, but Peter’s gaze is drawn to Nat. She’s sitting across from May, polishing a gun with the tablecloth. Her eyes scan Peter as Wanda thrusts him into a chair and takes the seat beside him. Peter offers Nat a wave and reaches for the bowl of rolls.

“This looks amazing, Mr. Rogers,” Peter says. “You’ve outdone yourself—”

“Your eyebrows are smoking,” Nat says.

"Smoking hot?" Peter says, wiggling them.

"Nope," she says. "Just smoking." 

Her voice is mild. It’s not a question, so Peter doesn’t feel the need to answer. He can feel every set of eyes around the table turn to bore into him. He bites into a roll. 

“It’s the newest trend,” Clint tells Nat. “All the youths are doing it. Do you think I could pull it off?”

“Peter, what happened?” May asks. Her voice is level, but there’s something shrewd in her gaze. Her voice makes Peter feel like a child, and he crosses his arms over his chest and stares at his plate. 

“You thought it would look cool,” Wanda whispers.

“I thought it would look cool,” Peter says.

“I helped him do it,” Wanda says, and he’s never been more grateful for her. “We used hairspray and a lighter. It was fun, and no one got hurt. Doesn’t he look nice?”

“All right, I’m expanding ‘Peter’s No-No List,’” Tony says, tapping his fingers against the table. “No internet—at least you’ve respected that one—no lighters, no hairspray, and no torching off parts of your body. You’d think at least one of those would go without saying.”

“What about melting giant skittle cookies?” Clint says, through a mouthful of pasta. “Is he allowed to do that?”

“Hey, here’s a thought,” Tony says, ignoring Clint. “Maybe instead of threading your eyebrows with _fire_ , you could use your aunt’s tweezers. You know, the ones you used to dig a bullet out of your abdomen?”

“Excuse me?” May says, slowly lowering her fork. “He used _what_ to do _what_?”

Tony stares at her for a second, and then turns to Steve. “This is delicious,” he says, so cheerfully that Steve looks alarmed. “How’d you get the rolls so flaky—”

“Don’t you dare change the subject,” May scowls.

“Lose the tone, it wasn’t my fault,” Tony snaps. “Do you think I was like, ‘Hey kid, you know what you should do? Get yourself shot, pulled out the bullet with tweezers, then stitch it up with dental floss—”

“Don’t tell her about the dental floss,” Peter whispers, but it’s too late. May’s frown deepens. 

“Just once, I’d like to have a calm, uneventful meal,” Rhodey says. “One where no one yells, and everyone has their eyebrows.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Peter agrees, nodding. 

“Don’t empathize with me,” Rhodey says. “I was there for the tweezer miscommunication. This is on you, Parker.”

Peter stabs a piece of pasta with his fork.

“Hang on,” Tony says loudly, drawing Peter’s attention away from Rhodey. “Everyone shut up.”

He holds up a hand, as though that will physically stop May’s barrage of fury. May glowers at him but falls silent. Tony frowns down at his phone, squinting as though he’s having a difficult time seeing.

“Everything okay?” Pepper asks.

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “My lawyers are calling.”

Peter feels his pulse quicken. He ducks his head and begins to shovel pasta into his mouth to keep people from asking him questions. Beside Peter, Wanda stiffens. Her cheeks flush. So much for being his rock. 

“I should get this,” Tony says. 

“This conversation isn’t over,” May says, but her anger has morphed into concern. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Tony ducks out of the room, pressing his phone to his ear. 

“This better be really fucking important,” Peter hears him say, and then the door snaps shut behind him. 

He’s only gone for a couple of minutes. Peter barely has time to quench the wild river of regret and nervousness coasting through his stomach like a tidal wave. When Tony returns, his face is set with an eerie calmness that chills Peter to the bone. He gives Peter a cold, grim smile and returns to his seat. 

The table falls silent, and one by one everyone turns to stare at Tony. He doesn’t speak, and neither does anyone else. The silence grows, pulsing like an unlit bomb. Peter exhales, and the sound reverberates around the table like a gunshot.

“Don’t be mad,” Peter says.

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Do I look mad?”

“You have the _How I Met Your Mother_ crazy eyes,” Wanda says helpfully, and Tony scowls.

“What happened?” Nat asks. She glances at Peter, and he offers her a smile that probably looks a bit deranged. Her eyes aren’t cold, but they’re not warm either. Her expression is cautious. Guarded. Peter’s heart clenches in his chest. _Sorry, Nat._

“Wanda and I made a video,” Peter says, biting the inevitable bullet hurtling toward his face. “We put it up on YouTube.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“What kind of video?” Steve asks, sounding strangely calm all things considered. Peter keeps his eyes on the table, so he won’t have to meet anyone’s gaze. 

“Let’s watch it,” Tony says, his voice bright enough to shatter glass. “Right now. FRIDAY, could you please pull up—oh, what’s it called again— _Spiderman is a Menace (Source: I’m Spiderman)_.”

Clint covers his laugh with a cough. Nat raises her eyebrows, but that’s her only reaction. May raises her hands to her mouth, looking both amused and dismayed. Steve and Rhodey exchange a glance but stay silent. Pepper reaches out and takes Tony’s hand. 

The video begins to play on the screen above the mantlepiece. 

The camera zooms in on Peter. He’s sitting cross-legged on Wanda’s bed, one of her throw pillows held over his lap. He smiles at the camera, and—all right—he does look a little manic. But it’s not his fault, Peter assures himself. It’s a bad angle, and besides, he’d just spent the past hour paging through the worst sites the internet has to offer.

“Hi,” video-Peter says. “I was going to make a video where I calmly defended my honor, but just screamed ‘I’m an angsty teen.’ Besides, you all know I’m Spiderman. You all know J. Jonah Jameson is a liar. You all know I spend more time getting cats out of trees than drop kicking babies. I don’t need to go into any of that.”

Video-Peter’s smile gets thinner. Real-life Peter realizes he should’ve waited to film until he’d calmed down. This isn’t a great look for him. 

“So today,” video-Peter says, “we’ll be making skittle cookies so I can eat my feelings.”

“Oh, Pete,” May murmurs. Peter stares at her, trying to make eye contact, but her gaze is fixed on the screen.

“First, get your ingredients,” video-Peter says. “You’ll need skittles, a lighter, and a chemical accelerant so the flames can burn as high as your rage. Flash, if you’re watching this, you’re an absolute dick. I beat you out for the decathlon team, and that makes me prouder than anything I’ve ever done as Spiderman.”

“I’m glad you decided to avoid being an ‘angsty teen,’” Nat murmurs, but Peter thinks he sees a glint in her eyes. 

“For the second step,” video-Peter says, “lay the cookies on a non-flammable surface. Today I’m using Wanda’s bedspread. I know what you’re thinking— _Oh, Peter! Everything is flammable if you try hard enough! _You’re completely right, and this is proven by my dating life. Now seems like a good time to make a public apology to Liz. For those of you who don’t know the story, I took her to homecoming, ditched her at the dance, and got her dad arrested for treason. All in the same night. Let this be a warning to everyone writing self-insert fanfiction about dating me. Liz, I'm truly sorry. You're probably my biggest regret. But that passive aggressive tweet was really unnecessary.”__

____

____

__“Believe it or not, I’ve gone on worse dates,” Clint says, watching the video with narrowed eyes. “I went out with this girl who shot our waiter with a concealed pistol. Blood all over my fondue. I still can’t eat cheese.”_ _

__“That wasn’t a date,” Nat says. “We were undercover, and that ‘waiter’ was trying to blow up Budapest.”_ _

__“That’s no excuse for destroying perfectly good fondue.”_ _

__“Can you be quiet?” Tony asks, his voice as sharp as a knife. Nat and Clint fall silent._ _

__Video-Peter lifts up the can of hairspray, shakes it twice, and blasts it through the flame. There’s an—admittedly small—fireball. When it clears, the blanket—and Peter’s eyebrows—are smoldering. Peter narrows his eyes, concentrating, and lowers the lighter closer to the skittles._ _

__“Note how quickly the skittles are melting,” he says. “This is a good metaphor for how my life fell apart after my secret identity got outed to the media. Shout out to everyone who made that happen. You guys are the worst.”_ _

__The camera zooms in on video-Peter’s face. He looks intimidating, or maybe comical. His face is twisted down into a vicious scowl, and his eyebrows are smoking, and there’s something calculating in his gaze. But his smile is genuine. He looks almost sweet._ _

__“Who deserves to be in prison?” video-Peter asks. “The sixteen-year-old kid who has the best recipes in the world, or the grown man who’s spreading harmful, dangerous lies for clickbait? You tell me. This is war, Jameson. Enjoy my cookies.”_ _

__The video goes dead, and the screen turns black._ _

__\---_ _

_rileykeysmash:_ Kid’s got weird energy. I like it. 

_downwiththegovernment:_ I notice he still hasn’t addressed the torture rumors 

_fevorlove: @downwiththegovernment:_ he just made cookies with skittles and a homemade flamethrower. Only people he’s torturing are the ones who have to eat his baking 

_avengethefallen:_ Yeah, I’m not sure whether to be terrified or impressed. He lit Scarlet Witch’s blanket on fire and then roasted off his eyebrows. Jameson wants us to believe the kid lawful evil, but I feel like he’s chaotic good at best 

_imcaughtinthemiddle:_ This kid is something else 


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I always wanted to end the Miscommunications series. All it took was two years and one global pandemic. Thanks for all your patience.

It ends exactly like it began. 

Tony and Rhodey lean against the most subtle car Tony owns, the one that screams ‘I’m rich’ instead of ‘I’m really, really rich.’ They stare at the closed doors of Midtown High, letting the silence swell between them like an angry cat. It’s been a year since Tony introduced Rhodey to Peter for the first time, since that subtle miscommunication where he falsely believed that Peter was Tony’s son. It feels like such a short time ago. Has it really been a full year? 

Just thinking about that skittle cookie video makes Rhodey cringe, but God knows it worked. It’s been forty-eight hours since the YouTube video was posted, and it’s turned the whole ‘Spiderman Deserves the Death Penalty’ thing into a total joke. Peter’s just a teenager—a smarmy, sarcastic, wide-eyed kid with a sweet tooth and an inability to think things through. 

“Tell me you have a secret biological kid that happens to go to Midtown High,” Rhodey says, nudging Tony. “Tell me we’re not here to pick up another child that has absolutely no relation to you.”

“No bio kids, I’m afraid,” Tony says. He sniffs and shoves his sunglasses further up his nose. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Are you and Pepper…”

“Yeah.” Tony grimaces. “Maybe. Jesus, Rhodey, I don’t know. One kid is more than enough. But…”

“But.” Rhodey agrees. 

He smiles into his travel mug of coffee. It’s amazing how much Peter has changed Tony’s life. How much he’s changed all their lives. These days, Tony isn’t just dealing with his own mistakes. He’s dealing with Peter’s, and May’s, and everyone else on their nascent team. Gone are the days when Tony threw around some cash, flashed a smile, and snapped his fingers to make everything okay. Reality has come knocking at Tony’s door, and he offered it a seat and a glass of iced tea. Rhodey is so damn proud of him. 

There are still reporters bustling around the school, but they keep a healthy distance. They’ve been threatened with lawsuits if they come anywhere near the students. That little asshole Eugene has been suspended until he agrees to take the Facebook page down. Apparently, the administration had no idea about the business he was running on school property. 

A bell rings. Students swarm out of the double doors, heading in every direction. A few students turn to look at the shiny car and the two men leaning against it, but most duck their heads and move on with their day.

There’s a lone exception. In a carrying, awestruck whisper, someone says, “Holy shit, is that Tony Stark?”

“Sure is, Abe,” someone calls back. “Just ignore him. He’ll fuck off eventually.”

“Screw you too, MJ,” Tony mutters. 

The owner of the voice jogs across the lawn to meet them. She’s tall and slender, with dark skin and a brooding expression. Rhodey tries to smile. He’s heard a lot about her, both from Peter’s besotted ramblings and Tony’s unbridled fury about the whole skittle cookie video. 

Tony and Rhodey have spent the last twenty-four hours learning everything there is to know about Michelle Jones. She’s a sophomore who lives with her mother, and she hasn’t heard from her dad in years. She’s sarcastic and guarded, and she doesn’t have many friends. She’s also the captain of the decathlon team, with a 4.9 GPA and damn near perfect PSAT scores. 

“Michelle,” Tony says coolly. “Excellent timing. We were just talking about you. Need a ride?”

“Methinks the fuck not,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here, Stark?”

“We can talk in the car. Get in.”

“I just said no.”

“Get in the car, kid. Now.”

“I’ll start screaming that you’re kidnapping me,” she warns, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve mistaken me for Ron or Hermione, or maybe even Ginny, but I’m the fifth year Ravenclaw who just wants to pass exams and get the hell out of dodge before Harry Potter blows up the whole castle. So don’t even _think_ about trying to drag me into Peter’s hot mess of a life.”

Tony looks just as confused as Rhodey feels. Honestly, Rhodey’s not even sure the kid is still speaking English. 

“I’m so sick of you Avengers,” she says, not half finished. “It was bad enough when Clint was spying on a bunch of kids through the vents—”

“I didn’t authorize that,” Tony says quickly.

“—and now he’s calling me every day,” she says, ignoring the interjection. “You know he calls me ‘MJ the Therapist?’ I took one semester of psychology freshman year. One. Next thing I know, he's telling me about the time he scalped a HYDRA agent with a paperclip, and then cleaned himself in the blood like it was bath water. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that information?”

“MJ—” Tony starts, and his voice has become almost sympathetic. 

“Did you know he paid off my mom’s mortgage?” she demands. “Yeah. I come home one day, and my mom is waiting for me on the couch. And she’s all like… ‘So, I hear you got a job.’ And I was like… ‘What?’ And she was like, ‘Yeah, Hawkeye the Avenger just paid off our goddamn apartment. You want to tell me what that’s about?’ She thinks I’m pimping myself out to superheroes, and honestly, that’s not far from the truth—”

“Should we try to get her to calm down?” Tony mutters.

“No,” Rhodey whispers back. “Let’s let her yell at us for a few more minutes. We deserves it.”

It’s strange. Rhodey was bracing himself for a rude, sardonic, moody teenager. But if he didn’t know any better, he’d think the girl sounds almost panicked. It’s a nice reminder of how young the kids are, and anyway, MJ’s right. The past few months have been ridiculously unfair. They don’t have the right to ask her for anything else.

And yet, here they are.

“And then,” she continues, her voice rising. “Clint has the fucking audacity to give my phone number to Captain America. Captain America! And Cap calls me, and he’s all like, ‘is this MJ the therapist?’ And I can’t even be mad about it, because I’m so damn worried about Peter’s impromptu identity reveal. So I just sit there in silence and listen to Steve Rogers open up about how guilty he feels for making out with his ex-girlfriend’s niece—"

MJ takes a deep breath. Her fists unclench, and she stares at them with narrow eyes that are rimmed with red. 

“So no,” she says, and her voice has become eerily calm. “No, Stark. I’m not getting into your car.” 

“That’s fair,” Tony says.

“We’ll be going now,” Rhodey agrees.

Tony nods. “I'm sorry. Seriously, kid, you’ve been dealt a shit hand.”

They slink back into the shiny sports car. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so fucking humiliating. They’ve taken on some of the most dangerous villains the world has to offer, and here they are getting their asses handed to them by a fifteen-year-old girl. Happy shoots them a sympathetic look in the rear-view mirror, but Rhodey can’t look at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. Hoping. Praying.

Just before Happy puts the car in drive, the door bangs open. Just as quickly it slams shuts, and suddenly MJ is sitting across from them. She buckles the seatbelt, glowering at them from the parallel seat.

“1345 Sanford Avenue,” she says. “Make it snappy. I’ve got calc homework.”

Rhodey doesn’t think he’s ever seen Happy hit the gas so fast. 

They ride in silence for a little while. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, her gaze narrow and observant. There’s something so all-knowing about her expression. It puts Rhodey on edge and soothes him at the same time. _She’s just a kid_ , he reminds himself. A young, scared, wickedly intelligent kid. God knows he’s dealt with plenty of those. 

“So why _are_ you here?” she asks.

“We were in the neighborhood,” Tony says, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. _Liar,_ Rhodey thinks. They spent forty-five minutes driving to the middle of Queens.

“If you’re here about the skittle cookie video, I’m not apologizing,” she says bluntly. “You strung Peter out for a week, and in about two hours I got his entire rep turned around. You should be thanking me.”

Tony stares at her. Then he says, “I know.”

“What?”

“Thank you. You did good, kid."

She swallows. 

“I was actually here to offer you a job,” he says. 

“If you need a therapy sesh, you’re out of luck,” she says. “MJ’s Unlicensed Superhero Support Line isn’t taking new clients. I can put you on the waitlist, but I can’t make any promises about fitting you in before Christmas.”

“First of all, I don’t need therapy—"

“I’m _positive_ that’s not true.”

“—and second of all, that’s not the job I was talking about,” Tony says. “I’ve been having some issues with my executive staff. Nothing major. But, as you so eloquently put it, you accomplished more in the last day then Randy the dipshit PR consultant has done in his entire life. So, if you ever feel like becoming the unofficial campaign manager for the Avengers…”

She stares at Tony. For the first time, it seems as though she’s at a loss for words.

“I’m massively underqualified for that,” she says. 

“Sure.”

“I…I have calc homework.”

“Duly noted."

“I don’t want your filthy capitalist blood money.”

“Bold of you to assume I won't find another way of paying you,” he says. “You want to go to MIT? Harvard? Cal Tech, if you have no taste? One letter of rec, and I’ll smash your future open with a sledgehammer.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“No,” Tony agrees. “But we could use yours.”

“You act like I did something impressive,” MJ says. “The media isn’t some rabid, uncontrollable dog. It’s made up of idiotic people with short attention spans, and they’ll fixate on the newest toy the second it crosses their feed.”

They pull up in front of her apartment complex. Tony reaches out a hand and gives her a business card. There’s a slight pause. Then she accepts it, slipping the paper into the front compartment of her backpack. She gives him a tight, thin lipped smile and slips her bag over her shoulder.

“This sucked,” she says. “Let’s never do it again.”

“Agreed,” Tony says.

Something silent passes between them. For the life of him, Rhodey can’t make out what it is. They stare at each other, and he can feel tension rocking back and forth. It pulses underneath them like a potent bomb. Tony stares at her, and she stares back, and then she turns and gets out of the car. She doesn’t look over her shoulder as she jogs over to the front door of the building, and she’s disappeared before either of them speak. 

“She’s something else,” Rhodey says. 

Tony nods.

“Think she’ll call?”

“Maybe,” Tony says. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Rhodey turns to stare at the window. For the first time in a long time, everything is starting to feel okay. Back at the tower, Peter is having a long overdue conversation with May. Rhodey’s sure he’ll get to patrol again eventually. Maybe Wanda can go out with him, and they can watch each other’s backs. The team is ever growing, ever expanding. Even despite all the setbacks in the past few years, Rhodey’s certain that they’ll be able to handle anything that comes there way. 

Tony shoots one last glance at MJ's apartment complex before Happy skids away. There’s a distant expression on his face. If Rhodey didn’t know better, he would think it was almost fond. 

_One kid, my ass_ , Rhodey thinks, and his lips twitch. _More like one and counting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all my readers—new and old—who have been following this series. You guys have been absolutely wonderful. 
> 
> If you want more chaotic!peter, feel free to check out my newest fic, Instant Kill Mode. I've had more fun with it than any other fic I've ever written, and working on it has been a lovely distraction.
> 
> As I mentioned in the beginning of chapter notes, this is how I always wanted to end the series. I might post a call log from 'MJ's Unlicensed Superhero Support Line' (naming credits to the amazing slyfendora and their hilarious comment), but other than that, this is the end. However, I have a couple irons in the fire for after I finish IKM, so stay tuned! 
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me.

**Author's Note:**

> My [ tumblr](https://isnt-it-just-so-pretty-to-think.tumblr.com/).


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